Page 41 of The Love Interest
Maybe if she would stop writing a fucking romance novel it would be easier for me to praise her. Maybe it would be easier for both of us if she were a little less talented and clever and passionate and sweet and funny and gorgeous. Maybe if she’d stop smelling so fucking amazing, I could take a deep breath in her presence and calm the fuck down.
I shouldn’t have agreed to this meeting.
Three soft but somehow obnoxious and determined raps at the door interrupt my totally rational thought process.
“Come in.” Christ, I sound like I just jerked off.
The door opens partway, and Fiona’s smirky beautiful face pokes through. “Is now a good time?” ‘Because it sounds like you just jerked off,’ is what that smirky beautiful face is saying.
“Now is a fine time.” I comb my fingers through my hair and lean back in my shitty desk chair behind my shitty desk. “Close the door behind yourself.”
Her expression tells me it’s surprising to her that I’d want her to close the door when she’s in here alone with me. But she’ll see that there’s no reason she or anyone else should have cause for concern. There’s a slender window in the door, like in every other door in every building on campus. There will be nothing to see. I will diffuse her anger so quickly she won’t know what hit her.
“How are your chakras doing?”
She struggles to refrain from smiling. “Most of them could use a few adjustments. I don’t think I need to ask howyoursare doing.”
“Correct. But as a whole, I’m doing well. Have a seat.”
“Actually, I’d prefer to stand. I won’t take much of your time.” She stays near the door, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Attempting to cover up her telltale nipples, I bet.
“Take as much of my time as you need. As long as you don’t need more than fifteen minutes.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes. It’s cute. And aggravating. And it has no effect on me.
She’s about to open her mouth to unleash some prepared speech on me, but I interrupt her by saying, “Take any interesting cock pics lately?”
She catches her breath and then huffs. “Yeah, actually. I got some really pretty pictures of him in Central Park with the fall colors.”
Who the fuck did you go to Central Park with to see the fall colors?
“That’s great. You should head over to Vermont to go apple picking this season if you get the chance. It can be a nice little weekend vacay, I hear.”
She frowns at me. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Welcome.”
She sighs and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. They’ve grown longer since I met her. Now she’s fussing with her bangs and fidgeting, and she’s so uncomfortable and nervous it’s adorable—but it has no effect on me. “So, I just wanted to ask you if you really disapprove of historical romance, or the entire genre of romance in general, or if it’s just my writing that you dislike so vehemently.”
“I don’t disapprove of either the subgenre or the genre. There’s obviously a huge audience for it, and a lot of very talented authors write romance novels.” I get up and walk around to the front of my desk, casually leaning against it. This makes her even more uncomfortable, which pleases me. “It’s just that I’ve read your contemporary American fiction short stories, as I said, and they’re very good.”
“I can’t make a living writing contemporary American fiction short stories.”
“You can if you also write a best-selling contemporary American fiction novel.”
She takes a step forward, and it seems as though she wants to lunge at me. “I don’t want to do that, and besides…what are the chances of that happening?Youwrite genre fiction, so I don’t see how you can be so judgmental about any other genre.”
I take a step forward too. “Fair enough. If you’re comfortable rewriting the past for the sake of commerce and entertainment, then by all means do it.”
“I don’t think of myself as rewriting the past—I’m rewriting my own future.”
I step closer to her. She steps back, and I back her all the way up to the door so she’s blocking the window. I can’t help myself. “That’s a pretty sentence. You should use it in your book.”
“Thanks for finally giving me some constructive criticism.”
“Welcome.” My face is inches away from hers, and I can see her lower lip trembling and smell the coffee and mint on her breath, and I would pull back if I got any sense that this made her truly uncomfortable, but she raises her chin in defiance. “Anything else you’d like to discuss with me, Miss Walker?”
“I would really love it if you wouldn’t be so rude to me in class.”
